Tonight there are layers of dream. First there is movement from this to that, craving that never rests, craving that lies in only that which has not yet happened, while filling itself with activity so that it can wait. Later, there is craving for whatever meets the senses, the music going by the window, the heat to go away, the contrast of cool breezes, the bright flags, the early crickets. Then, there is concentration, and craving for the ecstasy of freedom-from to last. There is more contrast with other dream, and desire for the working eye to sleep.
The waking that would tear me from my flesh is hurtling down the track.
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